


all i ever wanted

by belovedmuerto



Series: depeche mode inspired stories [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: DM fic, Depeche Mode inspired, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, sequel of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And sometimes, it happens like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i ever wanted

**Author's Note:**

> This is the spiritual sequel to "waiting for the night" in that I feel like these are the same Sherlock and John as in that story.
> 
> As always: Castiron is an awesome beta and red_adam is a phenom of a Brit-picker.

It happens like this, sometimes.

Just because the limp is psychosomatic doesn’t make the ache that roots itself in his hip and _radiates_ any easier to bear. He gets snappish, especially with Sherlock, but not even Mrs H is immune. His sleep is continually disrupted by his own fucked up subconscious. Everything is too bright and too irritating and the tea _always turns out wrong_. Everything hurts, everything is too hard, everything makes him anxious, makes him want to cry.

And sometimes, just sometimes, John’s own black moods coincide with Sherlock’s quiet moods.

It takes John months to put it all together.

Sometimes, when Sherlock goes quiet; no, silent--eerily, blissfully silent--it isn’t because his mood has faded into grey, or because he’s in a strop. Sometimes, it’s because silence is _what John needs_.

**

Sherlock will make tea for him, and it irks John that it turns out perfect when his own tea-making abilities have deserted him. Perfectly brewed, perfectly sweetened, just the right amount of milk (down to the millilitre, John is fairly certain). John never sees him do it, never catches him turning on the kettle or digging out the tea bags or even nipping out to the shops to pick up milk when there is none, but tea appears at his side as if conjured by magic, and it is _perfect_.

Sherlock takes up a perch on the couch and falls into one of his thinking poses. He says nothing. John sips at the tea and tries to read a book. Mostly he just stares at nothing and enjoys the quiet.

**

Sherlock plays him to sleep, when everything is dulled around the edges and the slightest noise makes him twitch, a lullaby of unaccountable sweetness. It wraps around him, twining with his limbs, embracing him with softness, with tenderness.

John hears the violin in his sleep, and he doesn't dream of terrible things. He dreams of music and of Sherlock and of the quiet.

When he wakes in the morning, Sherlock is curled up next to him, still dressed, the violin and bow on the floor, Sherlock’s arm stretched out towards him. John stays in bed just to watch him sleep for a while.

John's limp isn't quite as bad. His hip doesn’t radiate quite as forcefully. He doesn’t feel quite so much like his head is full of cobwebs and grey clouds; it’s mostly full of violin music, when he thinks about it.

**

John doesn’t have to try as hard not to say horrid, belligerent things that day. And Sherlock doesn’t say a thing, which makes it that much easier.

Another quiet day. John naps on the couch, Sherlock updates his website and starts some sort of experiment on the thumbs that had been in the fridge. (John is glad he doesn’t have to ask. Or protest. Most of the experiments don’t annoy him at all. He knows that’s at least a bit not good, but he’s got used to it. And the body parts only really irritate him when he’s startled by them.)

John breathes more easily into the silence that wraps around both of them, around the whole flat.

Sherlock goes to pick up the takeaway that evening, disappearing without a word; John wasn’t even aware that he’d ordered it. Perhaps he’d dozed off and hadn’t heard Sherlock place the call. Perhaps Sherlock had ordered it entirely by text.

It is, of course, perfect: all of John’s favorite dishes. Sherlock even eats.

After they’ve eaten, John tucks himself into the corner of the couch to stare mindlessly at the telly until he’s so close to sleep he can’t keep his eyes open, curls over and around himself, a defensive little ball, him against the world.

Sherlock doesn’t do what he usually does when he sees John settle into such a closed-off posture. He doesn’t sprawl out and drape himself over John, expecting to be petted, expecting to be soothed and cosseted the way he usually demands when they share a piece of furniture. Instead, Sherlock arranges himself carefully and draws John into his arms. John is surprised and reticent at first; this isn’t what he expects and he’s thrown, he’d retreated into his own head and hadn’t expected Sherlock of all people to draw him out again. But Sherlock arranges him, pulls and tugs until one pale hand is on John’s stomach, under his jumper and t-shirt, until John’s head rests on his shoulder and John’s back is mostly against his chest. Sherlock’s other arm alternates between stroking John’s hair and his arm, and John is entirely relaxed before he’s even accepted that Sherlock is cuddling him on the couch.

They watch a Monty Python film. Sherlock doesn’t need to speak to express his opinion when the film is over and John twists around to look up at him, and quite eloquently as well. John laughs, and Sherlock smiles.

**

All the tenderness that Sherlock never allows in words comes out when he’s silent. He betrays himself, his feelings, in actions the way he never does in words.

‘All I ever wanted’ his fingers say, skimming along John’s sides, undressing him slowly.

‘All I ever needed’, his lips form in soft kisses, a trail of exquisite fire down John’s neck, down his chest, lower, lower, igniting him, his nerves, leaving him gasping and grasping at Sherlock, trying to reply, trying to respond with his own hands.

‘Right here in my arms right now’ his arms say, his legs, his whole being wrapped around John with intent, with purpose, drawing out the pleasure in both of them with soft sighs and ragged gasps and long, languid kisses.

‘Words are entirely unnecessary’ his eyes say, and John agrees; John lets go and enjoys the silence.


End file.
